


The Dark Knight Trilogy: Rewritten

by kreestar



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Batman: A Death in the Family, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Movie 1: Batman Begins (2005), Movie 3: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Movie: The Dark Knight (2008), Pre-Under the Red Hood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25455964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kreestar/pseuds/kreestar
Summary: Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy had Dick been introduced in Batman Begins, Jason in The Dark Knight, and Tim in the Dark Knight Rises.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	1. Batman Begins

**Author's Note:**

> A general note that having _seen_ Chris Nolan's Dark Knight Trilogy is a prerequisite for this rewrite. I replaced key characters in his films (i.e., Rachel Dawes, and Officer Blake) with the bat-sons, so therefore refrained from rewriting any other scenes/plot points which would not be directly impacted by the change in character (I wanted to keep Nolan's story as in tact as possible). So sorry if it seems choppy or if you're frustrated with plot holes! Go watch the movies if you get confused you will not regret it!  
>   
> As I said, many of Rachel Dawes' scenes are replaced by the Robins but I should note: **THERE IS NO ROMANTIC ELEMENT IN THIS STORY AT ALL.** Yes, she was Bruce's love interest, but that romantic interest does _not_ carry on to the characters which replace her (batcest shippers... please stay away from this).  
>   
> Okay, long-story-short, I've had this written for a few months now and I'm... Super excited to share :) Also happy belated 12th anniversary to The Dark Knight!

**_2007_ **

“You know, sir, when you said you’d be taking the night off I had assumed your endeavors would be more…” Alfred pulls up to the large, candy-striped circus tent. He ducks his head to look at its imposing - if not silly - figure before the Rolls Royce he is chauffeuring. “Tasteful?”

Bruce hums from the backseat, fiddling with his cuffs. “All the proceeds from tonight’s show are going to Gotham General, Alfred. Are you implying charity is below your English sensibilities?” 

Alfred harrumphs from the front, “Never, sir. Just… These things are so…” Alfred’s face says it all. Bruce bites back a chuckle, and climbs out of the car after patting Alfred’s shoulder in farewell. 

He poses for his obligatory photo-ops, kisses a few cheeks, shakes even more hands, and wafts into the circus tent with the grace of a billionaire entering a ballroom. 

He’s sat between two other Gotham elites who chat through the majority of the performance. Bruce could not really blame them - it’s 2007, and the wonder of circus performances have gone the way of freak shows and Seaworld. It was unexciting, borderline offensive, and kitschy. Bruce half-watched the ring, and half-watched the crowd. 56 men in three piece suits, 74 men in two piece suits. 26 women in dresses that fell above the knee, and 98 with their hair in updos. It began to rain outside, at - what he guessed - was exactly 21:56. Bruce checked his watch, and harrumphed pleasantly - he was on the dot.

_“And now!”_ The ringleader shouts with all the pomp and circumstance of a man dressed like a clown, “ _The Flying Graysons!”_

Bruce wonders, if he’d been paying attention to the ring, he could’ve stopped it. Could’ve shouted out to the man and woman about to leap that there was someone in the rafters. 

Batman arrived less than five minutes after the Grayson’s died. There was little work for him to do with the perpetrator in cuffs, and the investigation only just beginning. Batman was about to leave - the smell of cheap food and animal feces was clogging his mind, and the sight of those two young people plummeting to their ghastly deaths was making his skin crawl. 

But before he could turn to leave, he ended up locking eyes with the youngest member of the Grayson brigade. 

Suddenly he was there. On a cold, damp street with his ears still ringing from the sound of a gunshot too close - much, much too close - to his face. There were small ivory pearls rolling against his feet. Large men in police uniforms approached him like tentative lion tamers, and Bruce felt the most alone - the most frightened - he’d ever feel for the rest of his long life. 

“What’s your name?” He tried to add warmth to the growl in his voice. The boy looked like he wasn’t hearing anything, anyways. He just stared into Batman’s eyes and trembled. 

“Dick.” 

Batman lowered himself to a knee. Looked the young boy in the eye. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Dick.” 

The boy lowered his head and wept. It was almost humorous - in one of those ways, that is not funny at all - after all these years of being alone (since that moment in the alley), he suddenly feels like perhaps he isn’t anymore.

**_2008_ **

When he takes Dick into the manor he has no intention of doing much more than leaving Alfred to his maternal devices and giving the boy the most adequate life possible. 

But one day, like some weird cosmic turn of fate, this all changes.

Batman stalked through the cave from his car, his mind cataloguing his prior patrol and trying to come up with what Dr. Crane and his merry band of mafia dons could be up to in Arkham. Gordon had seemed particularly shaken that night, walking through all his inconsequential leads with Batman, and looking nearly apologetic for his lack of knowledge. Bruce had left feeling dissatisfied. Once again feeling as though he were on the precipice of something but not knowing what. 

( _Scarecrow_ , Falcone had screamed in his cell. His eyes were glassy and terrified; honest in their emotion and their pain. Too honest. _Scarecrow. Scarecrow._ ) 

He was about to strip off the cowl and the cape when an ominous _crack_ broke through the artificial silence of the cave. Batman was instantly on alert, his hands clenched to fists, and his knees bent. The sound came from the back gardens, from the old well which is the only other entrance to the cave beside the waterfall, or his study. 

Bruce had been certain the manor grounds had been patched-up and repaired appropriately - leaving no hidden nor treacherous pitfalls for unsuspecting snoopers to fall victim to. He refuses to think too hard about the repercussions of someone following him back here. His life on the dark rooftops of Gotham coming and perverting his sanctuary at home. 

The bats at the ceiling of the cave react to his silent fears. They fly from their resting places in a great furious wave; screaming and circling the cave in elongated figure eights. Bruce begins a slow pace towards the site of the crash - the intruder. 

The bats make it hard to hear, so it’s only when he’s shrouded in the natural darkness of his cave that he hears the cries. By the weak light of the moon filtering in through the splintered wooden well, he sees a small figure in a tight fetal position. A mop of raven-colored hair nearly covered in mud, and bloody arms clutching bent knees. 

Bruce forgets himself, and Batman is hovering over Dick when the boy looks up. Bruce leans down and collects Dick into his arms, the skinny boy folding closer against his chest and trembling unabidden. 

“‘M scared.” Dick whispers, and not for the first time Bruce is struck by the boy’s honesty. His earnest idealism, and fanaticism. He’s a young boy with blue eyes that twinkle, and a smile that is always too wide. He’s good in every sense of the word. _Good_. 

“Don’t like fallin’, Batman.” He says, “Makes me think of y’know…” His voice cracks and he chokes on a body-wracking sob. The bats have calmed down by now, but still fly in dramatic pirouettes around Batman and Dick. Dick turns his face from them - refusing to look. 

“Why do we fall, Dick?” Bruce says. He realizes the soft tenor of his voice, but does not care. He never wanted Dick to know about this side of his life, and he still doesn’t. But it feels counterintuitive to his purpose - to being _good_ \- if he does not do this. If he cannot be good and he cannot be kind, to the most good and the most kind, then why is he even doing this in the first place. 

Dick doesn’t answer. Bruce gently sits him down on his workbench and stands up straight, nearly towering over the boy who is clutching his left arm. 

Batman pulls the cowl back from his face, and Bruce swipes a gloved hand through his sweaty hair. “To learn to pick ourselves back up.” He says. 

The tears in Dick’s eyes dry as if on command. His whole face transforms. Opens. He no longer looks like the scared little boy huddled in the mud by the light of the moon. 

**_MONTHS LATER_**

The last thing he remembers is Scarecrow’s eyes. The bats clawing their way out of his mask, as a gunshot rings ominously in the back of his skull, and pearls slip through his fingertips. Then he’s on fire, and falling. It feels like he never stops falling.

When he wakes up, he startles. Rather than the cold, unseeing eyes of a Scarecrow mask, he’s face to face with wide blue eyes and a very stern frown. 

“Master Richard, do give him some space.” Alfred says gently from somewhere beside Bruce’s bed. The young boy backs away, but not by much. His hands linger by Bruce’s arm, and he chews on his lip like he’s trying to refrain from speaking. Knowing Dick, and his penchant for chatting when he’s particularly nervous, Bruce can only imagine the restraint the young boy is practicing. 

“How long was I out?” Bruce gripes. He scrubs a hand down his face, trying to organize his thoughts and memories. They feel loose and weak; like flashes of a nightmare. 

“Two days.” Alfred says dully. 

In a soft, tentative voice, Dick says, “It’s your birthday, B.” 

“It was some kind of gas…” Bruce says groggily. Dick is still standing sentry at his bedside, chewing his lip and fiddling with his fingers. “I only breathed in the slightest amount…” 

“I dread to think, sir, what would’ve happened if you’d had a lungful.” 

“I’ve felt those effects before… But this was much more _potent._ ” 

Lucius Fox saunters into Bruce’s line of sight, and the three men compare notes on Bruce’s blood sample, and the possibility of an antidote. Dick does not move, despite Bruce’s looks - a silent admonishment seeing as this is hardly a conversation for the young boy to be hearing. Eventually Fox begins to make leave, and Alfred gently tells Dick, “Why don’t you escort our guest out, sir?” 

Dick hesitates, but after one last glance in Bruce’s direction he ducks his head and walks swiftly out after Lucius. Mr. Fox, being as genial and warm as Alfred, strikes up a light conversation with the boy as the two walk further down the corridor. 

“I found Master Dick with that… _Costume_ again, sir.” 

Bruce suddenly feels more awake as he looks to where Alfred is now mindlessly tidying his night table. 

“I thought we locked that away-”

“And once again, the young lad has proven rather resourceful.”

“Well,” Bruce begins to sit up, testing his straining body while his muscles cry in fiery agony. “I thought the last talk I had with him was enough, but maybe we need to start taking these comicbooks away from him-”

“Do pardon my speaking out of term-”

“Well you’ve certainly never cared before, Alfred-”

“Young Master Richard stays awake every night until you return home, sir.” Alfred interrupts with a scathing glare, “I hear him, puttering around in his bedroom till the early hours of the morning. Until he hears your footsteps return to your bedroom, he finally rests. He’s just a young boy, he needs his rest-”

“I’ll talk to him.” Bruce waves him off, slowly dropping his legs over the side of his bed. Alfred harrumphs again. 

“If you do not begin to trust that boy the way he trusts you, I fear for both his health and yours, sir.”

Bruce scoffs, “You can not be implying I bring Dick further into this life-”

“Dick is already _in_ this life, Bruce.” Alfred snaps, suddenly angry. Bruce looks up, frowning and affronted, while Alfred barrels on. “That _child_ sat at this bedside and cried for hours thinking you’d never wake up. He sits in his bedroom terrified you will not return home. He stitches himself costumes not to make you proud, sir, nor to fulfill some fairytale about being a comic book hero. No, he does so because he wants to _protect_ you. He is in this life, for all it’s goodness and it’s badness, because he loves you.”

Alfred clears his throat and collects himself. He gives Bruce one last lingering glare before turning and leaving. Bruce is left staring at the spot Alfred had left. 

He’d only just finished showering when Alfred informed him of guests in the foyer. He quickly hurried his pace to find Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes chatting amicably with Alfred. Bruce felt a smile come easily to him. Seeing Harvey in just shirt sleeves and jeans - without the whole pomp and circumstance of his neverending campaigning. Rachel, as always, looks refined and beautiful. 

“Harv, Rachel.” Bruce says in greeting. Harvey turns from Alfred and his face splits into a familiar grin. 

“Brucie! Get over here, old man.” Bruce nearly flinches when Harvey grabs his bruised arm and pulls him into a hug, but he doesn’t. He keeps his smile on, and his body lax. He hugs Harvey back, and imagines his childhood friend will not notice he lacks his usual zeal. 

“You’ll always be older, Harvey.” Bruce says in a drawl, raising an aristocratic eyebrow. Rachel tuts, 

“Now, now, boys. You know this old argument made me want to pull my hair out.” 

“Yeah because you’re the _baby_.” Harvey says, while Bruce embraces Rachel. 

Alfred takes his leave, collecting a discarded _Robin Hood_ comic book from the ground and holding it under his arm. He’d scold Dick for leaving his things about later. 

“Look, guys, I wanted to apologize.” Bruce begins, “I know I’ve been back but I haven’t really… Felt-”

“Hey, Brucie,” Harvey interrupts. He places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, alright? I’m just happy to _have_ you back. We both are-”

As Harvey turns to prompt Rachel, she lifts her ringing phone to her ear and smiles apologetically. The conversation is clipped and tense. Bruce tries to put on his best indifferent expression, but now even Harvey his shamelessly eavesdropping. When Rachel hangs up, she seems ruffled and irritated. 

“Guess we won’t make your party.” Rachel says with an annoyed huff, “Falcone was just moved to Arkham, along with 10 of his top men.” She gives Harvey a pointed look and begins to leave. Harvey sighs and follows. 

Bruce shakes his head, interjecting before either of them can make it out the door, “You’re going to Arhkam _now_? It’s in the Narrows-”

“Enjoy your party Bruce, some of us have work to do” She snaps. It would’ve stung, but Bruce is used to Rachel’s ministrations. Her cutting words forged by years of feeling inferior to the two rich boys who befriended her. Bruce has never blamed her for her harshness - if anything, he’s admired her for it. 

“Happy birthday, Bruce. Tell Dickie I said hi.” Harvey says with an earnest smile. He pats Bruce on the shoulder once more, and the two leave hurriedly. Bruce watches their car pull away before turning on his heel and racing down the long corridors of Wayne manor. 

Alfred intercepts him in the study, “But Master Wayne, the guests will be arriving-”

“Keep them occupied until I return.” Bruce slips through the hidden passageway, saying over his shoulder, “Tell them that joke you know! Or have Dick do a flip, you know he loves showing off.” 

Scarecrow attacks Harvey and Rachel. He lifts his arm, ready to pull his hidden trigger and drown them both in the spray of his fear toxin, when a figure swings into their line of sight. A small body sends Scarecrow sprawling across the room, and before either Harvey or Rachel could react, the boy in the black mask and red shirt shouts; “Run!” and they do. 

Rachel and Harvey are at the top of a dilapidated staircase when Harvey tries to turn, tries to _run_ , back with a worried, “Was that a _child?_ ” But suddenly the entire underground warehouse is rumbling, and both Scarecrow and the boy are gone. 

On his way to the Narrow’s, Bruce contacted Gordon. 

“Arkham. Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes are confronting Dr. Crane.” Batman says as greeting when Gordon picks up his office phone. The man does not hesitate to reply,

“We just got a call from Arkham from one Dr. Crane. Says the Batman has broken into his asylum - this is a trap for you-“

Batman’s hands clench on the wheel of his car. “Then he’s planning something. He’s trying to divert attention from Arkham to me. Dent and Dawes could be in danger-“

“I’ll meet you in the alleyway behind the asylum. We’ll get them out and I’ll meet you inside on the first story landing to get _you_ out.”

Batman hums in affirmation. He hangs up the line and speeds quicker into the waning sunlight.

Rachel and Harvey rush out to safety through a backdoor, and are intercepted by Gordon and the Bat. Harvey is already breathless from their narrow escape from a masked maniac, but if he had any air left in his lungs he’d gasp. 

“You’re out?” Gordon says to Harvey and Rachel with a frown, “We thought Crane would keep you hostage-”

“There’s another one in there,” Harvey says breathlessly, “A _kid_ , I don’t know I couldn’t see much he was so _fast_ and kicked Crane before he could attack us - Crane must have him, holy _shit_ th-they’re going to pollute the whole Gotham water system, Gordon, they’re going to-”

“A _kid?_ ” Batman growls. His voice and mask as eerily expressionless as the Scarecrow’s. 

Rachel nods, her eyes wide with shock but her lips firmly set. “It must’ve been. He was small and fast and came out of _nowhere-”_

And suddenly, Batman is gone. 

The young boy in the black mask and red and green outfit squirms and fights Scarecrow’s hold on his throat. Batman watches from the rafters, his chest constricting with his concentrated effort to remain perched above. He kills the industrial overhead lights. 

Crane drops the boy who is still sputtering and choking on the concentrated dose of toxin he was hit with. “He’s here.” Crane says almost whimsically. 

“Who?” A thug beside him asks with a shaky breath. 

“The Batman.” 

“What do we do?”

Dr. Crane looks deceptively pensive, he hums and says, “What else would we do when a prowler comes around? We’ll let the police handle him.”

“The cops? You called the cops? You want the cops around _here?”_ Another thug cries incredulously. Crane does not even spare him a glance. 

“I called them the moment those two from the D.A.’s office stepped foot down here. At this point there’s nothing they can do to stop us, but Batman on the other hand… He has a talent for disruption. I knew he’d come by the second he heard we had some of his favorite do-gooders. Anyways, why don’t we let the cops wrangle him out.” 

Crane turns in a circle, looking up at the rafters with a twisted look of intrigue. “Force the bat outside and the police will take him down.” Glancing at the inmates working around him he says, “Get them out of here.”

“What about the kid?” A thug gently prods the seizing child on the ground with his foot. Crane glances at him, 

“He’s gone. I gave him a concentrated dose, and the mind can only take so much.” 

Bruce stops listening after that. He leaps from the rafters and takes down the collection of armed cronies who surround Crane. The fight between them is quick, and nearly laughable. Crane is hardly an opponent without his gaseous cocktail. 

Crane says he’s working for Ra’s. Bruce’s mind is racing miles ahead of himself, trying to connect dots he had not even known were in place. Ra’s is _dead_ , he must be. But before he can even try to start piecing together this mystery, his world comes crumbling down around him as he sees the shaking figure at their feet. When Bruce lifts Dick into his arms, he tries not to shake himself. Dick is crying and shouting, swatting away invisible demons and Batman can do nothing but run.

“They’re looking for you,” Gordon whispers in greeting as the two intercept on the first floor of the asylum. Seeing the figure in Batman’s arms Gordon quiets. His eyes wide and frightened. 

“Get him to the back of the Asylum. He’s been poisoned-”

“I’ll get him to a medic-”

“They can’t help him, but I can.” Batman snaps. He feels his blood pressure begin to rise. His throat is getting tighter. He’s beginning to panic. Gordon must be able to tell the edge in his voice because he silences, and takes Dick from Batman’s arms with something resembling knowing in his eyes. 

“I need to get him to the antidote before the damage becomes permanent.”

Gordon holds the small boy tighter, even as Dick begins to go limp. Bruce, once again, must tamp down a burgeoning tide of fury and fear. “How long does he have?”

“Not long.” 

They talk in frantic whispers. Of the toxin. Of Crane’s supposed supplier. Bruce feels half present - the other half of him cataloging every twitch in Dick’s passive face. 

Batman calls for back-up, just as Gordon runs off towards their designated rendezvous spot. 

This car can go faster than even Lucius imagined, and it’s still not fast enough. Then again, the rational part of Bruce’s mind thinks, nothing could be fast enough. Nothing could move faster than the slowed motion of Dick’s head bobbing lower and lower against his shoulder. 

“Keep your eyes open.” Bruce commands. As if they’re back in the manor, and one of Dick’s backflips wasn’t tight enough. _Your arms were vulnerable_ , Bruce would say with a disapproving frown. Dick would sigh, _I’ll do better next time._

Next time. Bruce clenches his hands on the wheel of the batmobile. 

“Dick. Keep your _eyes open_.” The GCPD is nearly closing in on him. He sees a number of different weak spots in the structure of the parking garage they all speed through. The level of property damage he could cause seems inherently contradictory to Batman’s mission.

But Dick’s head bobs again, and this time it doesn’t rise. What is Batman’s mission? What has it ever been? His ears ring, and his mouth feels dry. He reaches out and grabs a small shoulder and squeezes,

“Eyes. Open.” He shouts. Dick lifts his head again but he looks around sightlessly. Confused and lost. Bruce levels the parking garage - all to escape in the cover of darkness. All to get away from the police. It feels twisted and entirely wrong. 

He goes into blackout mode. He slips beside different GCPD cars like a phantom, and speeds away towards the manor. He’s so close he can practically smell the musk and mildew of the cave. 

But he’s so far. And he’s moving so fast and so slowly. He looks over - turning away from the windshield and, more importantly, from all sense of what he’s meant to be. Dick’s eyes are shut and his mouth slack. He’s dead weight against Bruce’s hand on his shoulder. 

“ _Dick_!” 

Alfred administered the antidote while Bruce stood sentry and unmoving at Dick’s side. He’s laid on a makeshift hospital bed in the cave, and slowly falling into a restful sleep void of the nightmares which nearly killed him. Bruce’s hands clench at his sides.

“Why the R?” Bruce whispers. He runs his unclenched hand across the patch on Dick’s chest. A makeshift little scrap of a thing, sewed haphazardly onto the red kevlar he made into some sort of coat-shirt hybrid. 

Alfred takes from his pocket a folded up comic book. _Robin Hood_. Bruce looks at it with a silent nod, while Alfred lays the book at Dick’s sleeping side.

Bruce takes the hand from Dick’s chest and gently holds his cheek. 

“He saved Harvey and Rachel.” Bruce says to no one in particular. Then he turns and begins to undress for the party upstairs. 

Ra’s is alive, and Bruce is watching his home burn around him. It feels poetic, in some horribly cruel way. The wallpaper curls and blackens, and the floorboards begin to tremble and crack. Bruce is pinned beneath a burning piece of rubble and his eyes begin to drift shut. 

_If I had it my way, I’d tear this house down brick by brick_ , he had spat as an angry 20 year old. Hateful and mean. Vengeful and sad. Now, for some reason he can’t think of anything but the framed photos sitting on Alfred’s dresser in his quarters. Or the baseball cap Bruce had picked up for Dick one day, on a whim, which sits reverently on one of the boys bed posts. He imagines them burning with the rest of him. 

He is nearly unconscious when the beam begins to shift. 

“C’mon, Alfie, with your _knees!_ ” 

“May I remind you, Master Richard, I was in the British royal-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m sure you saved a lot of crumpets from near peril.” 

The beam is lifted with the collective effort of Alfred and Dick. Bruce helps as much as he can, though still weak and discombobulated with shock. He tries to move but before he can even lift himself, Alfred has him by the left arm and Dick the right, They carry him to the service elevator in the study while the manor burns and crumbles behind them. A path of destruction left in their wake. 

In the elevator, Bruce collapses again. Alfred mans the controls and Dick stands beside him, looking down at Bruce with worried eyes. 

Bruce finally gets a good look at him. The red kevlar top is sturdy, and meets halfway down his arms with dark green gauntlets that must’ve been stolen from the cave. The dark green matches his pants, which are stitched with padding and armor. A small black mask covers just his eyes, but he wears a black hood that is connected to the silky cape billowing behind him. The inside of the cloth is yellow. 

“Dick-”

“No.” Dick says firmly, “Robin.” 

When they reach the bottom of the cave, Robin extends a hand and helps Bruce to his feet. The latter looks down at him with a skeptical frown. Worried, but resigned. 

“I can take one of the antidotes to Gordon, and try to get one to Lucius for mass production.” Dick says quickly, showing off the hefty utility belt he strapped to his waist. Bruce nods slowly. Dick continues, “I’ll meet you and Gordon at the Narrows, and we can figure out a gameplan.” 

Robin turns to leave but Bruce grabs his arm. Dick turns around with a knowing look of steely determination. Ready to fight for this. Bruce is hit with a wave of something startling, and warm. Hit with both fear and thrill, and unshakable pride. 

(Strangely enough, he hears his father’s voice. _Why do we fall, Bruce?_ )

“Be safe.” He says, stern and final. Robin nods, unable to fight his own growing grin. 

“Always, B.” 

It’s days later when Batman meets with Gordon on the roof of his precinct. “Nice.” Batman says, while patting the steel-reinforced ‘bat signal’. 

“Couldn’t find any mob bosses to strap to the light.” Gordon says while crushing his coffee cup. 

Batman and Gordon stand in amicable silence before Batman looks to him prompting, “Well, sergeant?” 

“It’s Lieutenant now.” Gordon says with a shrug, “Commissioner Loeb had to promote me. And he had to disband the task force hunting you. Amazing what saving a city can do for your image… Well, not just _yours_.” Gordon turns to Batman now with a grin. “ _Batman and Robin_. Got a nice ring to it.”

“Hh.” 

“You guys should come up with a theme song or something-”

“Lieutenant.” Batman interrupts.


	2. The Dark Knight

**_PRE-JOKER_ **

**_2010_ **

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Batman growls into the empty alleyway. He checks again for his batarangs (as Dick has begun calling them - a name that is disappointingly catchy enough to stick) out of his utility belt, but surely enough they are gone. All 50 of the sleek chrome weapons either lay in a sewer somewhere in crime alley, or in the hands of a petty thief that by some _miracle_ got the jump on Batman. 

He was patrolling _rooftops_ , how anyone managed to sneak up behind him was-

“You’ve _really_ got to be kidding me.” Bruce repeats to the universe at large. Because there was _one_ person he’d interacted with on the street level. _One_ person who could _not_ be swift enough to rob the _Batman._ And yet, when Bruce circled back and returned to the spot where he’d helped an injured little boy who’d fallen from his precarious spot climbing a street lamp - he found all the evidence he needed. Muddy shoe-prints, and the impression of a batarang on the ground. As if the boy had dropped one in the street, and then quickly picked it back up before running off. 

He started in the direction of the footprints, but a cry for help somewhere behind him distracted him from his pick-pocket. He resigned himself to making more batarangs, and finding the boy another night. 

He eventually did find the perpetrator. He heard the familiar clanging sound of a batarang being tossed against a brick wall. It was hard to get them to dig into tough surfaces sometimes - a skill that took Dick a few months to master. By the looks of it, the boy was experiencing an equal level of difficulty. Bruce watched him from a fire-escape above - tossing the sharp weapons with frustrated fury. 

“It’s in the wrist.” Batman calls out. The boy startles. He whirls around and upon seeing the Batman’s silhouette half-hidden in shadow, he clutches the batarangs tighter and sprints off in the opposite direction. Small feet pounding against wet pavement. 

Batman is only a few strides behind the kid when the latter turns and bolts down another slim alleyway. Batman doesn’t hesitate to follow. 

For his efforts, he gets a tire iron swung directly into his abdomen. 

“Fuck off, Rat-Man!” A high-pitched voice shouts into the darkness. Bruce grabs the iron, but the boy has taken off again. Bruce watches him scale fire escapes with the ease of a gymnast. He flips and turns - leaps across window ledges - runs across rooftops. 

Bruce watches the boy with a clinical fascination. He hasn’t seen anyone move with such grace since Dick was his age, and the comparassin shakes him from the momentary shock. He takes off after the kid because despite his talent, he’s untrained and lackluster. Tracking him is simple, and within seconds Batman slips through the partially ajar window of a dilapidated apartment hallway. 

When Bruce enters the studio apartment the boy had run into, he is nearly overwhelmed by the stench of gasoline and tobacco. Despite being hardly 10 - probably younger - the young thief was puffing away on a bent cigarette with a defiant frown. He doesn't like smoking, Bruce realizes at once. 

“That’ll stunt your growth.” Batman rasps from the threshold. The boy jumps - literally leaps into the air and prepares himself in a fighting-stance. His eyes are suddenly wild, and the cigarette is left to burn slowly on the dirty hardwood floors below him. 

“This is breaking ‘n ennering.” He says with a scowl. Batman has to use years worth of training to refrain from grinning. 

“ _Entering.”_

The boy’s scowl deapens, “Whatever, still illegal.” 

“Almost as illegal as stealing private property.” 

“Ain’t private when you leave it hangin’ off your belt for anyone to take.” 

Batman feels the sudden urge to lecture this boy on common property rights but, as with his grin, refrains. 

“You live here?” Batman looks around the room. There are tires scattered around, hubcaps, car-radios, and food wrappers. The sound of shouting reverberates from the apartment above them, and something slams against the wall opposite them. The walls are stained with what could either be grease, or blood. Bruce looks back at the young boy in front of him and feels his chest constrict as if he’d been hit. 

A young kid with messy black hair, and wild eyes. His cheeks are sunken in, his skin pale, and the bones of his elbow protruding. Despite this, his shoulders are straight, his jaw set. He knows how he looks, and he knows what his life looks like. He _knows_ , and he knows the Batman knows. But of those two, there is only one who’s allowed to pass any sort of judgment. 

Batman can see a torn photo beside the pillow on the floor. A man and a woman - they don’t look particularly happy, but they hold the shoulders of the small boy in front of them protectively. 

Batman grunts. He turns to leave with thoughts racing through his mind - plans being made, pieces falling in place - when the startlingly brilliant child behind him says, 

“I’ll be outta here by tonight if you call them social workers. I been in homes before, and I ain’t goin’ back. I been in those orphanages and I’d rather die than go back. So take your stupid costume ‘n fuck off, because I _ain’t_ going.” 

Bruce glances over his shoulder, does not make eye contact, and then leaves. 

“Jason Todd.” Alfred says plainly. He continues typing on the mobile bat-computer from the new ‘cave’. “Mother died years ago of an overdose after his father was killed in prison. He snitched on Falcone to Harvey Dent, but before he could testify in court…” Alfred shrugs. Such is life, in Gotham, Bruce thinks bitterly. 

Bruce leans over Alfred’s shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the police records and grainy photographs. 

“May I ask your plans, sir?” Alfred asks - always five steps ahead of Bruce’s quick mind. 

“I know I should call the government in on this.” Bruce says, trying to clear his throat to get the growl out of his voice, “But… The kid was adamant I don’t. I can’t…” 

“Perhaps we can send him to one of the more… Well-off foster homes in the tristate area. Certainly his experience there will not be as negative.” Even Alfred sounds displeased by the suggestion. Bruce’s hand clench on the back of his chair. 

“There was just this _look_ in his eyes, Alfred. He’s angry, and violent, but also incredibly intuitive. He’s a talented criminal, and he misses nothing. He can be the next crime boss of Gotham given the resources, and I fear he already has them all.”

It was a logical fallacy and Bruce knew it. There was something about Jason Todd’s angry eyes and defiant posture. About the stained photograph beside his makeshift bed. 

Alfred hums, “Do you ever wonder, sir…” He pulls up the list of past foster care programs Jason had been admitted to. The nightmare scenarios forced upon a boy of only eight. “What your life would’ve been like, had your parents not been monarchs.” 

“I’ll be mean to you.” Jason says while they ride up the elevator to Bruce Wayne’s penthouse. “I’ll spit on your floors. And if you want me to call you dad, I’m not gonna. If you _don’t_ want me to call you dad then I’ll call you dad. I’ll break windows and stuff-”

“Jason, like I said, I do not care if you’re mean. If you spit on the floors then you’ll be punished - but not by me, by Alfred, and that will be a million times worse. You don’t have to call me anything-”

“What if I call you shithead. Mr. Shithead. Shithead-dad-”

“Jason,” Bruce groans as the elevator doors chime open. At the sight of the sprawling penthouse with its floor-to ceiling windows and bright floorplan, Jason went quiet. Despite his vigorous complaints from the moment Bruce picked him up from his ‘apartment’, to the Gotham City child-services office, to the penthouse, he suddenly went still. 

Bruce stood in the elevator for a moment. Waiting for the boy to walk ahead of him and look around, but he never did. His fingers twitched, and his eyes jumped from surface to surface, but he did not move. He was waiting for Bruce. 

Bruce, with his hands in his pockets, stepped from the elevator and began a slow gait throughout the foyer. Jason walked beside and behind him - only looking at everything from the semi-concealed view behind Bruce. Alfred swept into the living room after Bruce finished showing him the majority of the first floor. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred tipped his head. Then he looked to Jason and smiled warmly, “Master Jason. Supper has been prepared and is waiting in the dining room.”

“Thanks Alfred.” Bruce says dismissively. He tries not to look at Jason too much. The boys’ hackles raise as soon as someone turns to him. 

Bruce is taking him up the stairs when Dick emerges from his room. He’s pulling his earphones from his mp3 player when he notices the two people blocking his path downstairs. He smiles at Bruce, but upon seeing the hidden figure cowered behind him, his eyes go imperceptibly wider. 

To say the least, the decision to adopt Jason had not initially gone over well. Bruce had read enough parenting books - specifically, the one’s written about birth order - to know Dick’s reaction is only customary. For an only child, and especially a child with Dick’s past trauma, the introduction of another family member leads to insecurity and feelings of inadequacy. 

Bruce has been woken up a number of early mornings by the tearful 13 year old who stutters through frantic worries such as _‘what if you’re not allowed to have two kids Bruce? What if I get taken away? Is this gonna affect me being Robin? I really don’t think you should have_ two _teammates, I think that would compromise Batman's mission._ ’ 

He’s made progress in the month since the adoption papers first arrived and now. Dick’s therapist claims he’s become more accepting of the situation, and Alfred sounds particularly hopeful considering Dick is once again eating as normal. 

Bruce had worried he was making the wrong decision. But then he’d remember Jason’s dilapidated home, and unhinged rage, and he couldn’t let Dick’s worries affect the wellbeing of an at-risk child. 

“Hey.” Dick says shortly. He looks at Bruce for a second longer than he looks at Jason, which is hardly more than a moment. Dick slips past Bruce on the stairs and races down without another glance. Bruce continues on, 

“This is Dick’s room.” Bruce says, motioning towards the open bedroom door. “And this is yours.” Bruce opens the sleek black door and steps aside to let Jason walk in. Jason does, tentatively. Still hovering around Bruce - hardly a few steps away. 

“Alfred’s bedroom is on the main level, and mine is a floor above. I’ll let you get settled in, then whenever you’re ready Alfred made a roast-”

“You’re going?” Jason asks suddenly - his first words since they entered the penthouse. He turns, looks up at Bruce, and the second their eyes meet he turns away again and scowls. He walks into his room and crosses his arms, “Alright whatever. I don’t know what a roast is anyways, I’ll probably hate it.” 

Wordlessly, Bruce follows him into the room, and takes the duffel bag off Jason’s shoulder. He unzips it, and begins removing the few articles of clothing and belongings that Jason has. Jason hovers again. Just watching him. 

They did this silent dance for 45 minutes. Folding Jason’s clothes and tucking them into their appropriate drawers. When they finished, Jason sat on his bed and nodded in what Bruce would take as thanks. It was, undoubtedly, all he’d get from the child. 

**_2015/NOW CANON WITH THE BEGINNING OF THE DARK KNIGHT_ **

“Did you get mauled by a tiger?” Alfred frowns as he continues to stitch up Bruce’s arm. Bruce frowns.

“Dogs.” At Alfred’s incredulous expression Bruce grumbles, “ _Big_ dogs.” 

From the opposite side of the ‘cave’, Jason scoffs. Bruce glares at him. Jason laughs. 

“There were more copycats last night, Alfred. With guns.” Bruce says. 

“Perhaps you can hire some of them and take the weekend off.” Alfred says half-heartedly while continuing to stitch Bruce’s arm. 

Bruce chuckles, “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to inspire people.” 

“I know, but things are improving, sir. Nightwing, for instance. And of course the new District Attorney.” 

“Not so sure about the former of those two considering he was supposed to be going to _college_ instead of flinging himself off buildings all night.”

“Pardon my asking, sir, but is this not coming from the man who was kicked _out_ of college?” Alfred quips in reply with a raised eyebrow. Bruce narrows his eyes. 

“Hold up - _kicked out?_ ” Jason pipes up. 

Bruce levels Alfred with a glare. “Look what you just started. You’ve completely compromised my integrity in front of the child.” 

Alfred says nothing. Just bites back a grin, and continues stitching while Jason cackles. 

****

Bruce knows that Joker is coming only moments before he does. Thankfully, he’s able to subdue Harvey quickly enough and get Rachel safely tucked away with him. Bruce races through the corridors of the penthouse, trying not to focus on the gunshots echoing from the ballroom. (His ears always ring a bit when he hears one go off.)

When he first became Batman, he was meant to be impartial. A symbol. Potentially, a movement. So he considers it a weakness that his hands begin to tremble when he reenters the ballroom and sees Joker holding a knife to Jason’s mouth. He thought the boy had escaped with him - had run to protect Alfred, or Harvey like he was _supposed_ to. 

The Joker’s voice rang through the deathly quiet room, 

“So you’re Wayne’s kid, hm? Y’know you remind me of myself. You got _spunk_.” He laughs. A hideous, bone-chilling sound. His hand on Jason’s neck tightens, and the 13 year old clenches his jaw - keeps his mouth in a tight line even as a blade is thrust further into his bottom lip. 

“You wanna know how I got these scars?” He asks. Batman rises up to the rafters of the room and closes in.

“No.” Jason growls. In one swift movement he kicks Joker in the abdomen, and backflips into one of his henchmen. The crowd gasps, and Batman leaps down to join the fray. He’d have a few words to say to Jason for being so reckless with his secret identity - there were only so many thirteen year olds who could do combative acrobatics, afterall. 

“Oh, fun!” Joker exalts as he slips away from Batman’s assaults. Jason was trying to escape - he was certainly stealthy enough, but the Joker had too many henchmen - too many eyes. Before Jason could get away Joker had him by the collar of his shirt and was dragging him, kicking, towards the window. 

“Stop this.” Batman growls. He tries to make eye contact with Jason, but the boy has always been prideful. His face is flushed with fury and embarrassment, and his eyes are locked with the marble floor. 

“Simple.” Joker says. He has a gun at Jason's temple. “You take off that mask of yours and show the whole world who the big-bad-bat is, and I won’t blow Wayne’s kid to hell, okay?” 

Joker reaches back and shatters the floor to ceiling window behind him. Gotham opens up like an abyss below them. Before Bruce can even blink Jason is dangling out the window by the front of his shirt - gripping onto Joker’s wrist and cursing furiously under his breath. 

_Always such a mouth on him_ , Bruce thinks almost hysterically _._

“Let him go.” Batman snarls. Though Bruce Wayne, in the far corners of his mind, begs. Begging this lunatic and feeling 3 feet tall while doing so. He swore to himself he’d never sink below the moral code of a desperate criminal after that day he nearly killed Joe Chill. But now, watching his kid dangling 70 stories above Gotham, Bruce thinks he’d do more than just kill Joker. He may even kill _for_ Joker if it meant Jason was on two steady feet again.

“Poor choice of words.” Joker says. 

And then, he lets Jason go. Robin would have been able to use his grapple gun - _Jason_ should be able to grab onto a window sill and walk away with no more than a dislocated shoulder. 

But to Bruce’s horror, Joker knows something. Something Bruce can not think about for too long lest he falls into a paranoid psychosis. 

Joker doesn’t just let go of Jason - he _shoves_. Jason was falling a handful of feet away from the building. In other words, too far to grab anything. 

Batman runs after him and leapt from the open window. Though by the time he opens the cape - Jason is gone. The boy hurtling through the night air is stolen away by a swift moving flash of black. Bruce clenches his jaw and follows the figure now carrying his son who swings along the edges of buildings as fluidly as the monorail had once weaved its path above the city. 

After a brief game of cat and mouse, they all land on a rooftop edging the park. Jason touches down on the roof and instantly whirls on his savior, 

“I-I could’ve caught onto something! I would’ve been _fine-_ ”

“Oh, yeah, no need to thank me or _anything_ -” 

“Boys!” Bruce barks. 

Nightwing turns, “Can you tell the brat to have some gratitude?” 

“Joker knows.” Batman snaps. He approaches Jason, “He knows who you are. Your identity. You need to _be more careful.”_ The growl in his voice turns to a shout. Jason’s eyes go momentarily wide before they narrow again in defiance.

“What was I suppoed to do, let him slice up that oldie at your stupid dinner-” 

Before he can finish, Bruce pulls the boy against his chest and hugs his shoulders. He lets go after a handful of seconds and turns. Even under his mask, Bruce can read the understanding in Dick’s eyes. 

__ 

Batman enters the interrogation room and feels, for all intents and purposes, like a child again. There’s fear stirring inside of him - a fear that rears the head of dread. Foreboding and threatening. Maybe it’s Joker’s own psychosis rubbing off on Bruce, but he feels like he should laugh at his own insignificance. Joker clearly has a whole joke written out and planned for him, and who is Bruce but a meaningless pawn within the grand scheme of his ploy.

“You wanted me. Here I am.” Batman growls. Joker smiles.

“I wanted to see what you’d do. And you didn’t disappoint… You let five people die.” Joker rambles on. His philosophy is horrifying in it’s articulation. It’s the words of a madman who sees the world in his own shades of black and white. 

After the mad soliloquy, Bruce takes Joker by the collar of his shirt and hoists him into the air. He looks him in his expressionless eyes; “Where’s Dent.” 

“You have these rules. And you think they’ll save you.”

“I have one rule.”

“Then that’s the one you’ll have to break. To know the truth.” 

“Which is?” 

The Joker’s face transforms. The hideous smile on his face grows and grows until it looks like his entire face is just the ghastly grin of a demon in the night. “The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules. Tonight you’re going to break your one rule.”

“I’m considering it.” Batman leans in further. He knows how to interrogate criminals, but he also knows this show is hopeless. He knows he is just dancing around the inevitable horror that Joker has written for him. 

“There are just two minutes left. So you’ll have to play my little game if you want to save…” There it is again. That _smile._ The dread in Brue’s chest grows. The fear claws at his insides and screeches. Like millions of bats closing in around him. “ _One_ of them.”

_Them_. “Them?” 

“For a while, I thought you really were Dent. But then I saw the way you _threw yourself_ after him-” 

Bruce never acts without thinking. Ever since he was a boy, he’s been a tightly wound circuit of logic. He _feels_ mindless in his rage, and his fear, and his helplessness, but he is not. He drops Joker, rips up the bolted down chair from the interrogation room, and jams it under the door. He knows Gordon will be rushing to him - his friend more concerned for Batman’s image than Bruce himself - but he can’t _deal_ with the GCPD right now. Not when there are two minutes on the clock. 

And then, for the first time in years, Bruce stops thinking. He grabs Joker by the neck and smashes his head into the two way glass. 

Bleeding from his nose and mouth, Joker smiles again. “Look at you _go_. Say does Bruce Wayne know his little orphan is the boy wonder-” 

Batman throws Joker against the wall. He stands over him, trembling. “ _WHERE ARE THEY.”_ He must know who Batman is. Through the blood, and the vacancy, Bruce can see the knowledge there in Joker’s expression. He doesn’t know why Joker’s protecting Batman’s identity right now. Frankly, Bruce does not care. 

But if there’s anything Bruce does know, it’s that _Joker_ is not pulling the strings of a protective teammate. As if reading Batman’s own mind, Joker says, “I always hated _my_ father.” 

_“WHERE ARE THEY.”_ Another punch. He should be unconscious right now, but Batman knows better than to pull his punches. Joker has walked away from much worse. 

“Killing is making a choice… You choose one life over the other. Your friend, the district attorney, or the boy.” 

Batman hits him again. Asks again. Joker laughs. 

“I must say, the kid doesn’t go down without a fight, _sheesh!_ The only way to get him tied to the chair was to play a quick game of _bash the birdie’s skull with a crowbar!”_ The Joker’s laugh pierces through Bruce. He feels empty - alone in a damp alleyway with pearls rolling listlessly against his feet, and his ears still ringing. He hits Joker so hard, even under the reinforced gloves his hand goes partially numb. The Joker laughs even louder. 

“Alright, alright I’ll tell you where they are. Both of them. See that’s the point - _you’ll have to choose_.” Joker rattles off the addresses. Batman nearly tears the door off its hinges. 

“Which one are you-” Gordon begins. 

“Jason.” 

__ 

“Hello!” Jason shouts from where he was strapped to a chair. His head is fuzzy, and his eyes are clouded with blood. 

From his right, a telephone duct taped to an oil drum comes to life. Harvey Dent sounds confused, but confident. He always does, Jason thinks with a sudden fondness. He never really liked Harvey, seeing as the political hack represented everything the young boy hated about Gotham (and, to be frank, the world). But right now, when he feels so horrifically alone, the comfort of a familiar voice settles him at least momentarily. 

“Jason!” Harvey says, “Jason just… It’ll be okay, alright. You’ll be okay, little man.” 

Jason always hated that nickname. Dick had hated it as well, when Dick was of course ‘little’ enough to qualify for the strange endearment. 

“What’s… What’s happening.” Jason says. He wants to know what Harvey knows - what he’s picked up on. The crowbar has left Jason’s mind dull, and he doesn’t want to reveal too much of his own secret identity. 

“It’s okay Jason. Joker said… He said that he’s letting Batman decide which of us to come rescue. It sounds… It’s sick, but you’ll be _okay_ Jason-”

“Harvey you can break yourself out,” Jason says hurriedly. Of course Batman is going to come for him, but that doesn’t mean he feels any reprieve from guilt. Sure, Harvey is irritating, but he doesn’t deserve to die. 

__

While Bruce drives, there’s a small part of his mind that is still the Batman. The part that points out the logical issues with being a Gothamite who chooses to willingly let this city’s best chance at redemption die. That part is there, running through outcomes of his decision. How the politics of his city could crash and burn. 

Though it’s funny, in the least humorous way, how little that voice matters. Next to the large and impenetrable blank slate which overcomes it. He hasn’t felt this way since he was a robber in the streets of Taiwan. Stealing for survival and acceptance. There were never thoughts to his actions, simply instinctual motion. 

There was never any thoughts when he’d been forced to fight hordes of men thrice his size in the prison camps. It was just motion. One punch, to another. Nothing. 

The League of Shadows trained him out of this. They took the blank slate and replaced it with an idea. A moral code, a will, and a determination. The blank, raw _emotion_ was weak and below him. It drove animals and beasts, not symbols nor heroes. 

So perhaps it was most fitting this was to be Gotham’s downfall. When Batman proves he is actually just a man. There is nothing in his mind but Jason. 

_But what about Gotham._

_You have a purpose. A goal. That is your city._

_You’re saving one life over, potentially, thousands._

And Jason is worth every one. And Bruce hates himself for thinking it - for succumbing to the weakness of a _rich_ 28 year old man who steals from street vendors to eat. Hates his passions and his instinct. But he can’t, for the life of him (for thousands of lives which are not his) hate Jason. He can not, and will never, be apathetic towards Jason for the sake of his city. 

He probably won’t even attend Harvey’s funeral. Too guilt-ridden to look Rachel in the eye - to look at his city with its barefaced grief. Bruce will have to know he caused it - for the rest of his life, he will live in a Gotham which could have been better if Bruce had been a different person. If Bruce hadn’t adopted a son. As painful as this decision feels - to sacrifice one life for another - the empty thoughts leave no room for doubt. 

He finds the warehouse with its tall slate walls and rushes inside. Ready to see relieved blue eyes. 

He sees Harvey, and he knows. The dread headed fear clawing at his insides laughs. This was the game. This was the game all along. 

Harvey’s eyes go wild. “ _NO! Why are you HERE? NO, you don’t understand - THERE’S A KID-”_ The rest is the robotic motion of getting Harvey out of the warehouse. There’s a phone next to where Harvey’s chair is nailed to the ground. 

As Bruce is dragging Harvey’s chair out of the warehouse while the hysterical man thrashes and cries, the phone chimes to staticy life. 

_“BATMAN!”_ Jason screams, “ _I-I-I can’t get the ropes undone, I can’t escape, you don’t understand - I’m stuck! I’m really stuck please-”_ Bruce throws Harvey out of the building the rest of the way and begins running towards the phone. 

There must be a way to talk him through untying himself. Jason is a master at what he does, and the stutter in his voice must be due to the ‘bashing’ Joker had spoken of. 

_No, Bruce,_ a voice inside him says in Joker’s hissing baritone, _he’s stuttering because he’s fucking terrified._

Batman is almost at the phone. 

_“DAD, PLEA-”_

The warehouse explodes. Bruce’s last thought is how he wishes the batsuit was not fireproof. 

__

_“You’re rather good at this, Master Bruce.”_ _Alfred says while placing down a tray of breakfast before him. Bruce looks up from his work._

_“Well I should be. I only trained for-”_

_“Not that.” Alfred corrects. Bruce looks up at him, and Alfred is looking at the far side of the cave. Dick had fallen asleep sitting up on the couch doing research, and Jason - stubborn as ever - had fallen asleep in a similar position despite not doing much other than playing Tetris on Dick’s phone._

_Bruce had removed Dick’s mask and cape, and gently laid him down on the couch. He removed Jason’s shoes and positioned him on the other end - the 15 and 10 year old fitting comfortably (and being prideful things who’d undoubtedly complain if Bruce carried them to their rooms). He laid a blanket across the both of them, and harrumphed in satisfaction over his work._

_Bruce turns his face back to Alfred who is looking at him with a small, private smile. Bruce, feeling suddenly disquieted, looks back at his work. Alfred chuckles softly and pats Bruce’s shoulder._

____

Bruce wakes from the dream to find Dick sitting at his bedside. His face in his hands. Crying so hard his shoulders are shaking. 

__

Harvey is holding a gun to Gordon’s son’s head. Two-Face looks wild and dangerously off-the-deep-end. Batman approaches him slowly, his heart broken to see the handsome face of his oldest friends distorted into vile wickedness. Pure, and angry evil. 

“Look at your son and tell him he’ll be alright. Lie to him. _LIE!_ ” Harvey screams, pressing the gun further against the boys head. “Lie the way I had to _lie_ to my best friend’s son. A thirteen year old kid, all because _you couldn’t save him!”_ He screams this at Batman now. His eyes are wild. One half of his mouth is pulled into a hideous grin, and the other is a hard line. 

“You know how many _times_ ,” Harvey continues with that manic pain in his eyes, “I begged my dad the way I heard that _child_ beg for his. Beg my dad to drop the belt. Beg my dad not to flip the _fucking_ coin. But he never listened. Neither did Bruce, or _Batman_ , or the cops. So go ahead, Gordon. Lie to your son. Because the least I can say about my dear old dad is he _never lied.”_ Harvey’s words are growls. He’s shaking. All the pain Bruce has watched him try to conceal over the years is unravelling in some horrific kaleidoscope of psychosis. 

Harvey flips his coin. He shoots Batman. 

Of course Bruce saves Gordon’s son, but he doesn’t save Harvey. He’s already saved Harvey once, Bruce thinks like a stab to the gut.


	3. The Dark Knight Rises

**_2018_ **

It’s the morning after Selina Kyle robbed Wayne Manor, that Dick came storming in with a familiar fury. He walks with purpose, and with frustration. In the past two years this had to be the millionth time he walked in with this devastating hope. Alfred is more than familiar with the song and dance.

“Master Dick, why don’t you join me in the kitchen for some lunch. You know I am always thrilled to see you, but Master Wayne is-”

“Yeah, indisposed.” Dick says, with a groan, “Sleeping. Out of town. Not ‘feeling well’. I don’t care, Alfred, I just need to talk to him.” 

“Master Dick, please-”

“I don’t wanna hear it Alfred!”

“And I can’t stand watching you two hurt each other.” Alfred practically shouts. He stops at the foot of the stairs, watching as Dick barrels up them without a second glance. He is reminded of all those years ago, when Bruce was Dick’s age, and storming up this same marble staircase with righteous indignation and childish rebellion. Alfred tutts to himself about apples falling from trees.

Bruce is in his study, in a sturdy armchair with a collection of files spread across his lap. Six different mugshots of one Selina Kyle look back up at him. He doesn’t even notice Dick enters until the young man is standing in front of him. 

“We have a problem.” He snaps. Bruce glances up at him for hardly a second. 

“I’m sure you can handle it yourself.” 

Dick clenches his fists, “This problem involves _you_ -”

“Then I suggest you remove yourself from it.”

Dick sets his jaw. His eyes are filled with rage, and it makes Bruce ache to remember the way they would sparkle when he was so young. 

Dick stands in that tense silence for a while. Bruce thinks for a second Dick may strike him. 

Dick takes in a long, trembling breath. “He was my brother, y’know. Did you happen to forget that, or do you just not care.” 

Bruce has the reply sitting on his tongue. The scathing, venomous, ‘ _and where were_ you _that night’_ that Bruce has thrown at him nearly every time the two have tried to meet and mend their severed relationship since Jason’s death. The first time Bruce yelled that at him, Dick had cried and toppled a grandfather clock before storming out. The second time, Dick had hit him. The third time, Dick seethed and replied, _“say whatever the fuck you want, Bruce just because you know if you had been thinking straight, you would’ve figured out the Joker was lying to you about their addresses_.” 

Bruce had looked at him with blank eyes, and said nothing more. The silence was somehow more painful then the shouting. 

Bruce doesn’t say anything though. He looks back to the work on his lap, and eventually Dick leaves with a frustrated sigh. 

The next time Dick comes, he forces Bruce’s hand. The aforementioned ‘problem’ marches into the manor beside Dick. 

“Oh my.” Alfred says in a quiet huff when he sees the scrawny young boy beside Dick. He has large blue eyes, and poorly styled black hair. Dick looks determined, and stands slightly in front of the boy as if protecting him from something. Which, given their unannounced entrance to Wayne Manor, is only a fitting precaution. 

“This is Tim.” Dick says as explanation. From the top of the stairs, Bruce pauses. His cane held in one hand, and his eyes tracking his eldest son’s as the man looks around the foyer for any sign of Bruce. “And Tim has something he’d like to _share_ with us.” 

Alfred is already interrupting - trying to casually move the two boys to the kitchen for something to eat (food, being Alfred’s ultimate sanctuary), when Tim begins speaking. His tentative voice practically booms through the manor. 

“I know Bruce Wayne is Batman. Just like I know Dick was the first Robin, and Jason Todd was the second. I know the Joker killed Jason, and then Harvey Dent tried to kill Commissioner Gordon’s family. I also know Mr. Wayne didn’t burn his own house down, that was the League of-”

“Who are you.” Bruce barks from the top of the stairs. Tim jumps. He looks up at Bruce for hardly a second before looking back down at his feet. 

“I-I’m Tim Drake. I figured it out by watching your movements. Yours and Dick’s, and-”

“Get out. Both of you.” Bruce says with finality. He turns and walks from the staircase before the young, seemingly quiet boy speaks up again;

“Mr. Wayne, it’s bad out there. Real bad. I found Commissioner Gordon at the mouth of a sewer, he’d been shot and was babbling about some person named ‘Bane’-”

“What do you mean you _found_ -” Bruce frowns. The teenage boy interrupts with a sigh,

“I was chasing the lead myself. I have a lot of free time-”

“That is incredibly dangerous, young man-”

“Yes, it is.” Tim snaps. He looks up at Bruce beseechingly, “Commissioner Gordon needs _Batman_. I’ve tried to talk to cops about this, but they asked me if I also found some giant talking alligators down there. No one listens to me because I’m just a kid, but they’d listen to you. They’d listen to Batman. And look, fine, you want to deny to me what I know is true, go ahead. But _I_ know, and _I_ know this city _needs you_. So you can either sit here in this house and do nothing, and completely waste the sacrifice that Jason Todd made to this city, or you can go out there and help your friends. You can help _me_.” 

The silence in the manor felt palpable. Bruce looked down at the boy for a few long seconds, before turning and walking off. Slow and steady, and utterly conclusive. Dick gripped Tim by the shoulder and hung his head. 

__ 

Thalia lays there dying. She looks up at Batman with a bloody grin and wicked eyes. Beautiful and deadly. Bruce feels chills prickle up his arms. 

“There is no way to stop this bomb.” She whispers. She looks at Batman, as if looking through his mask at Bruce himself. At his very soul. “My father’s work is complete.”

Gordon rushes off to try, with everything he has left, to stop the bomb. To save the city. Bruce remains, because he feels he should. He feels that Thalia is not finished yet. 

Thalia smiles slow and serine; “You don’t remember. We made sure you wouldn’t. Eight years ago, when you and I met for the first time.” Bruce feels something inside of him shudder. His mouth dry, his heart racing. 

Her mouth is dripping with blood, but her eyes are sharp. Bruce couldn’t look away even if he tried. Gordon is trying to disable the bomb, and he has to go and help him. But he waits. Thalia, even in her death, has a hold on him that borders supernatural. 

With that red smile and snake eyes, she whispers, “ _Our Prince._ ” 

Gordon is shouting for him. Batman clenches his jaw and leaves her. A mystery to be solved at a later time.


	4. Epilogue

**_2020_ **

_ “En route to 43rd and 5th.” _ Dick says over comms. Bruce sits in the cave - sipping slowly on his tea, and watching his monitors which display some of his street-level surveillance cameras. He tracks Nightwing and Red Robin. 

_ “B, something going down in the Narrows.” _ Red Robin says contemplatively. Bruce frowns, 

“Elaborate.”

_ “Well… I just found six different mob don’s right-hand-guys running from one of Falcone’s old haunts. I tried to interrogate one but he just kept saying he… He doesn’t work for anyone anymore.” _ Tim sounds confused; an emotion that does not sit well with the brilliant teenager. 

_ “Isn’t that a good thing?” _ Nightwing says conversationally. Tim hums, 

_ “It wasn’t like that, Nightwing. They made it seem like there was someone… Worse. Someone new pulling the strings.” _

Bruce frowns at the screen just as a small presence joins his side. 

“Father.” Damian says. When Bruce turns to him the boy looks pensive. Almost nervous, even. Bruce turns to him fully; knowing the weight of Damian Wayne feeling anything even resembling fear. Nervousness or trepidation being foreign entities to the sharp young boy.

“Yes, Damian?” 

Damian furrows his eyebrows and looks down at his father's lap. Bruce shifts and places a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. The show of affection seems to calm the boy who looks up at him again with more of his familiar determination. 

“Mother used to tell me of a gift she had for you.” He said slowly. Bruce frowns at him. 

“What kind of gift, Damian?” 

The boy swallows. “Mother used to say it was the gift of opening your eyes to the way honesty can corrupt. The way Batman can be good, but can still fail. It was a lesson in the form of a curse. And a curse in the form of a blessing.”

Bruce squeezes Damian’s shoulder before returning his hand to his lap. He looks at Damian until the boy turns and points to one of the screens of the bat computer. 

“That’s it. The blessing… And the curse.” He says. Bruce follows his gaze to the monitor which covers crime alley. At the center of the dillapitted street, shrouded by shadow and waning moonlight, was a man in a red hood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'd like to think the sequel to this epilogue is the animated Under the Red Hood movie... But now I'm just fantasizing about being Chris Nolan's producer... Sigh.


End file.
